1

With a name like Fisher, it’s only natural for me to be attracted to large bodies of water. I’m easily impressed by anything deeper than a bathtub. I grew up in Denver until I was 14. It’s a great city, especially for nature lovers, what with the ever-present mountains and an environmentally conscious population. Water, however, wild, free-standing, blue-as-the-sky, shiny-as-a-mirror, water was not Denver’s strong suit. The “lake” within walking distance of my childhood home would barely merit mention as a puddle in other places of the world. Fortunately, in the ten years since my dad sent me packing, I’ve gotten to see plenty of those other places: West Coast, East Coat, Gulf Coast, Great Lakes.

In the era of quick status updates, where everyone can define themselves by a short list of labels and in 140 characters, my status depends greatly on the perspective of the person describing me (and their degree of relatedness to me). I’ve never used Face-space or Five-corners, so I’m at the mercy of the people who do when it comes to labeling. The ones that have floated back to me are “world traveler,” “professional vagabond,” “dabbling wizard,” or “lunatic-just-short-of-civil-commitment.” My dad once used the phrase “career criminal” when he thought I was out of ear shot. Those labels all fall short of the one I prefer: Colin Fisher.

The lake stretched out in front of me was a prime example of everything that pond in Colorado wasn’t. Lake Thunderbird was man-made, but that didn’t make it any less impressive to the eye. The way the wings of the lake wrapped back around me created the illusion that I was on the edge of an island beach, rather than a hundred yards from a State Park parking lot. Sitting against the thick oak trunk, staring out across the charcoal blue waters, I felt a million miles away from all my problems. That thought, unfortunately, reminded me that I was really only 682 miles away from my most pressing issue. It would be a nine-hour drive, if I pushed straight through.

Going home to Colorado was the last thing I wanted to do. My mom died when I was 14. Dad and I did not deal with her death too well. When we weren’t crying, we were fighting. Most of the time, we fought because one of us had caught the other one crying: machismo at its dysfunctional peak. Adolescent males are crazy to start with, but the grief made me a royal pain in the ass. In my defense, my father could have been a little more supportive, more understanding. There’s no use rehashing that argument now, I suppose. There’s not enough time left to finish it.

When school let out that summer, my dad sent me to live with my aunt and uncle in Boston. The plan was I’d come back in the fall, once things settled down, got back to normal. I don’t think my dad or I ever realized that without Mom, there was no normal. If we had tried, maybe we could have come up with a new normal, but we didn’t. The last time I saw him in the flesh was at my high school graduation…in Boston, not Denver. I celebrated my twenty-fourth birthday three months ago, which made me a Cancer. My dad had cancer and was either dying or already dead.

My thoughts wandered like the wind-chopped waves on the lake, dancing through graveyards of memories better left buried and undisturbed. The book I brought out there with me was lying in the brush beside me, untouched. Most museum curators would kill me for carrying it around, let alone setting it down in the dirt, leaves, and dried mud. I’ll have to add them to the long list of people who sternly disapprove of my behavior. I picked up this peculiar tome in Charleston, chomping at the bit to read it. It’s not every day that I found a 17th century commentary on faeries of the Rhine plains for less than ten bucks. The owner of the antique store couldn’t read Yiddish and thought of it as a cute decorative paperweight. I thought of it as a feast of knowledge, waiting to be devoured, and I suppose both of us were right, in our own way. I probably would’ve finished studying it already, if I hadn’t called home to Boston that night.

I went to Harvard for three years. That was part of the initial allure of spending the summer with Uncle James and Aunt Celia in Massachusetts. By getting a feel for the area while I was still in high school, my dad thought it might reduce the stress of transition later. He always thought I had Ivy League potential. I guess it worked a little. My freshman and sophomore years were great. Then Sarai disappeared. I dropped out after the second semester of my junior year, a ripe old burnout at the age of 20. I’ve often wondered if my dad would have put a “My son is a Harvard dropout” bumper sticker on his car if I sent him one. As failures go, it’s impressive: aim for the stars; when you crash, you’ll make a bigger crater.

I reached for the book, anxious to face the road again and be done with it. My legs were stiff, but responsive, as I rose. In my wild gypsy days, I’ve mastered the art of sitting under a tree for long periods of time, without letting body parts fall asleep. The walk from the lakeside to my car, Dorothy, was all too short. Dorothy’s hood stretched on forever, a giant silver space-age yacht cleverly disguised as an ’86 Ford Crown Victoria. Spare me the save-the-world speech: I had her converted to bio-diesel five years ago. It’s possible to be environmentally responsible and still drive a tank.

I deposited the book onto the passenger seat, unceremoniously dumping it on top of the other unread treasures I’d acquired in the last week. My dad was lying in a hospital, parts of him slowly devouring other parts of him, but I still couldn’t force myself to hurry. My traveling routine was what it was: drive for two to three hundred miles, refuel, cruise around the town to see if anything catches my interest, then find a safe place to park the car for the night. Interest for me comes in two forms: money and knowledge. I love old books and I don’t mind a little manual labor to acquire them. I’ve been stretching my runs to 400 plus miles lately, near the edge of Dorothy’s fuel limit, and skimping on the work, but this was still the way I operated. I’ll get there when I get there. The fact that I didn’t want to watch my Dad die had nothing to do with my refusal to break routine…okay, maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

I took a deep breath, my eyes panning over the grandeur of the lake one last time, before turning the key in the ignition. I didn’t want to leave, but the road awaited. Nothing happened when I turned the key. I grimaced, frustrated by Dorothy’s sudden rebellion. Soon, she’d be the only family I had left in the world and she was trying to jump ship, too. When I noticed that the headlight knob was turned all the way to bright, I let my head crash down on to the rim of the steering wheel. I cried for far longer than a man can safely admit.